A Secretly Proverbial Heaven

We are sitting on the shore of the island of Crete.

we are Cretans. we are liars.

We are watching a tidal wave rush toward the shore. We know that it will crush us dead, so we tell it that it can never reach us, because it is constantly halving the distance between us and it. And so the closer it gets. The more it slows. Slows. Slows. Suspended forever over our island of liars.

A sea of names is a very easy place to disappear. Especially when the tides are generated from the shore. Ebbing away from a horizon that is itself regressing toward its own horizon.

I have never floated calmly in these waters and I have been caught in many of its storms. Deserted for a time. On an empty island made of sound and light.

Some frantic cosmic fraction
and jesus laughs like a man
The clock panics

into the category of qualities
which is itself a quality: the dark
behind a door related to the morning
we bartered a barely dreamlike earth
for the modern truth about heaven:

we are born from armpits and mouths
forming an uncomfortable alliance with a name